


A Fist Upon My Heart

by ryssabeth



Series: Domestic Vloggers [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bloggers - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Vloggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:11:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first--and only--time he's ever been punched in the mouth quite that hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fist Upon My Heart

Admittedly Grantaire had always figured that meeting the bane of his existence for the past four months would be rather _low_. Certainly he never expected him and _his_ group of friends to show up to a little Parisian convention in the middle of the spring, just for shits and giggles. And he _definitely_ didn’t expected to be cracked across the mouth by a fist that is pretty quantifiably made of stone.

But, for what it’s worth, Enjolras doesn’t look like he expected to punch Grantaire either.

(And, from this angle, pushing himself up from the floor—that was a _hefty_ swing—he can admit, really very objectively, that he can see why _this_ asshole gets so many views.

It probably isn’t solely for the bullshit that comes out of his mouth.)

“Ouch,” Grantaire says when he ends up standing, the throbbing in his jaw feeling very much like many fists, clocking him over and over and _over_ again (and he swallows the blood that keeps pooling in his mouth).

“I’m—“ the crowd around them, happy to finally see the bickering websites bicker in person, murmur in distress. “I’m—sorry, I—let me look at that.” Grantaire can spot Courfeyrac and Eponine from here, eyebrows curved with concern.

Grantaire steps away from the outstretched hand ( _all I came here to do was blend in and mix drinks, Jesus Christ_ ) and blinks, “no, it’s okay, I think your fist got a really nice look at my jaw, thanks.” (He tries not to sound petulant about it—it is, perhaps, a little bit his fault.) “Sorry for my catty video response.”

( _“You—!”_

_“Oh—shit, hi—“_

_“That last video response—“_

_“—was entirely applicable because you called me a depressed alcoholic—“_

_“—which is_ accurate _from the way you carry yourself—“_

 _“—and_ you _carry yourself like a petulant child, wailing about things you don’t understand and never will, so I think we’re eve—_ “)

Enjolras—for the first time that Grantaire has ever seen him, though usually there are miles and screens between them—looks not at all angry. Instead, he just looks tired and upset. “Please,” he says, and gets back in Grantaire’s personal space, where he’d been minutes before to punch him across the mouth. “Let me at least go with you to get some ice.”

Grantaire acquiesces. If only because Enjolras does genuinely look concerned and Grantaire’s mouth is too sore for him to actively protest much.

The hotel hands over an ice pack pretty willingly (heaven forbid they get sued) and Enjolras presses it gently against the swelling side of Grantaire’s mouth, his lips pursed (probably more in disappointment at himself than at the state of Grantaire’s face).

He doesn’t say anything.

(And that—Grantaire is used to Enjolras talking. No one makes _videos_ about sitting in awkward silence.)

So he speaks, instead. “So, hey, awesome that security didn’t get called.”

“Yeah.”

(He goes quiet again.)

“Sorry again, about the child thing.”

“It’s easier to avoid punching you when you’re not around,” Enjolras veers away from Grantaire’s apology, pulling the icepack away from the surely forming bruise. “I’m—I’m really sorry.”

“It’s, uh, it’s no big deal.” Grantaire clears his throat, because it distracts him from the column of Enjolras’. “So, a Paris convention? Why?”

Enjolras shrugs, placing the chill back against Grantaire’s face. “I live close by.”

( _Oh._

 _Oh, no._ )

“Coincidental,” Grantaire’s throat feels too tight. “I, too, live close by.”

Enjolras almost drops the icepack (bless Grantaire for catching it, keeping it pressed against his jaw) and his eyelids flutter in surprise. “ _Pardon_?”

“I’m from Paris too.”

(Grantaire could _laugh_ about this, if his face didn’t hurt and if he wasn’t still irritable, if he didn’t believe Enjolras’ words that he _is_ a depressed alcoholic, if he felt that laughing would get the shock off of his face—but he doubts that, very much.)

“Oh.”

That’s all Enjolras has to say about it.

And so—because that’s how Grantaire got started in this entire business in the first place—he jumps in, head first, into speaking. “Can I interest you in a drink? I was going to mix some for patrons—with IDs, anyway—and though you seem adorably sober, you should see the magic I can work with Coca-Cola, Dr. Pepper, and half a lime.”

The flutter of Enjolras’ eyelids is back—but, he supposes, it is Enjolras’ turn to surprise him.

“Sure,” is what he says. “But only because I hit you, and the guilt will eat me alive.”

Grantaire schools his face into seriousness. “If hitting me makes you calmer then by all means—I am your punching bag.”

Enjolras doesn’t hit him again, but he _does_ shove him.

(And Grantaire smiles, even though it hurts.)


End file.
